Gallery Whispers

44

There was an empty parking space at the back entrance to the veterans' nursing home in Calton Road, next to Dr Surinder Gopal's flat. Skinner lined up Sarah's 4x4 against the white wall, and looked up at the top floor of the old brewery store, where Brian Mackie had said that the missing doctor lived.

'She comes here every morning,' he said to his son, over the noise of the Spice Girls. They were Jazz's favourites; he was still short of his second birthday, but there was something about their music which could keep him happy for hours. 'She does the dusting, feeds the budgie and takes in his mail. The boy's Mammy's good to him, isn't she.

'Let's just check whether she's here just now. Back in a minute.' He jumped out of the car, paid the parking fee, grudgingly as always, then walked to the entrance door to the old building. He found the buzzer marked 'Gopal' and pressed, leaning on it for several seconds.

Eventually, a woman's voice answered 'Yess?'

'Is Mary in?' Skinner asked.

'Pardon?'

'Is Mary in?' He looked at the names beside the other buzzers.

'Mary Blake.'

'There no Mary here,' said Mrs Gopal, impatiently.

'Aw sorry, hen,' said the policeman. 'Must have pressed the wrang bell.'

He was still smiling as he climbed back behind the wheel of the Freelander. Sitting with his back turned to the door, he looked into the back seat, at his son, who was still listening to the Spices, and mangling a picture book in his strong hands. 'She's in, right enough.

Let's just wait and see where she goes next.'

'This is what CID work is really about, Jazzer,' he murmured.

'Long hours spent sat on your bum…'

'Bum,' the child repeated.

'… or worse, stood out in the could freezing your chuckies off.

But every so often…' He smiled,'… you get lucky, and that makes it all worthwhile.'

He sighed. 'I miss it, you know. Wee Man. Times like this; they're bonding experiences, the detective and his neebur — or neighbour, as we say in Edinburgh — his partner, sharing the hours of boredom, then sharing the buzz when they do get a result.

'I have to tell you, too, that I still get a perverse pleasure out of stealing a march on the lads.' He laughed, softly, as Jazz began to sing nonsense sounds along with Stop, making a passable effort at following the tune.

'I almost told Mackie yesterday that he should try this, but then I thought, "No. Keep it for yourself, Robert. Take the chance to get out of that bloody office."'

He was still smiling when he heard the soft knock from behind him, on the driver's window. He turned, annoyed by the interruption, to see Steve Steele looking through the glass, a shade anxiously.

He had to switch on the car's electrics before he could lower the window. 'What the hell are you doing, sergeant?' he asked.

'The same as you, I think, sir. Just being curious.'

'Do it in here then. Get in.'

The young sergeant nodded, walked round the back of the car and climbed into the passenger seat, being careful not to scrape the door against the wall. Skinner nodded towards the back seat. 'This is my oppo,' he said, 'my younger son, Jazz.' He looked over his shoulder.

'Wee man, this is Stevie. There's worse detectives than him on the force, believe you me.'

He paused. 'Did you tell Mr Mackie you were going to do this?' he asked.

Steele shook his head. 'No sir. I suppose I should have.'

'Aye,' said Skinner heavily, guilt setting in. 'So should I.'

He glanced at the entrance door as he spoke, and saw it open.

'That's her, sir,' Steele burst out, as the woman emerged, wearing Indian costume as before. She had a small handbag slung over her left shoulder and carried a handful of mail in her left hand. They watched her as she walked up to a blue Toyota Picnic parked nose-in to the building, opened the driver's door and climbed in.

'Okay,' the DCC murmured. 'On your way, Mrs. You're probably only going home, but let's just make sure.

'Do you know where she lives?' he asked Steele as the Picnic reversed back from the building and headed off up Calton Road. He started the Freelander and followed, a safe distance behind as Mrs Gopal turned into New Street.

'She and her husband have a shop up in Slateford, sir. They live not far from there, in Craiglockhart Avenue.'

'Indeed?' said Skinner slowly, watching the car indicate a right turn into Market Street. 'Why's she going that way then?'

'Probably going shopping in the town, sir.'

'I know the probabilities, Stevie. It's the improbabilities we're looking for.'

They followed her along Market Street, across Waverley Bridge and Princes Street, then left into Queen Street. 'So much for shopping,'

Skinner muttered to himself as the Picnic turned right towards Howe Street. The midday traffic was heavy as they neared Stockbridge, and so Skinner was forced to close up on their quarry. 'Bets?' he asked.

'Somewhere close,' Steele murmured. 'You don't go through Stockbridge to get to anywhere else; not on a Saturday, at any rate.'

Half a mile later, he was proved correct. Indicating at the last minute, the woman took a left turn off Comely Bank, and drew to a halt in a space no more than a hundred yards into the narrow street, beside a grey stone tenement building.

Skinner parked the Freelander twenty yards further along, pulling across to the opposite side of the road. Mrs Gopal seemed completely unaware of their attention as she stepped out of the Toyota, stepped up to a ground floor flat, opened its blue-painted door with a Yale key and stepped inside.

'And just look at what's parked there,' the DCC exclaimed, as the door closed behind the missing surgeon's mother. 'A silver Alfa 146 was it, Stevie? Registration T197 VSG?'

'That's the one, sir.'

Skinner beamed at his Spice-entranced son over his shoulder. 'What did I tell you, Wee Man? Every so often, you get lucky.'

'Maybe so, sir,' muttered Steele, following his glance, 'but what are we going to do about it? I mean, we can't'

'That's true. I'll tell you what, you mind the baby, I'll go in and lift him.' The DCC laughed out loud at the sudden consternation which showed on Steele's face. 'It's okay, Stevie. I think I've got that covered.'

He took his mobile phone from his pocket and began to punch in a number.

Less that ten minutes later the acting chief constable and the detective sergeant stood together at the blue door. Skinner rang the bell, leaning on it for a few extra seconds as he had at the Calton Road building.

Eventually the door creaked open. A tall young man stood in the murky hall of the flat, peering out at them. He was brown-skinned, and well-built, his muscles emphasised by his white tee-shirt.

'Dr Gopal?' asked Skinner. The man nodded.

'We're police officers. I think you'd better talk to us; don't you?'